Tell Me When (22 page)

I want to say this all to Marcus, but the words remain stuck in my throat. Especially at the look of disgust on Marcus’s face. It would be one thing if Paul had raped me. It’s another thing for me to be a willing partner. I can see that on his face. I can hear it in his silence. I can feel it in my heart as it crumbles under the weight of his reaction.

I scramble off the bed and yank on my clothes. Marcus doesn’t say anything. He’s lying back on the bed, his bent arm covering his face.

I run. Run out of his bedroom. Run out of the apartment. Run down the stairs and out to the parking lot. I keep running until I’m in my car, and with tears joining the previous ones, I drive away.

Chapter Forty-Two

Marcus

Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
That’s the only thing I can think of after Amber slams the apartment door shut.

I’d been so deep in thought, I hadn’t realized until it was too late that she misunderstood my silence. I’d been thinking about what she had said and how Ryan used to let Frank abuse him just so our stepfather wouldn’t hurt me. I hadn’t realized it until Amber told me what she had done to keep alive. I hadn’t realized until now that this was part of why Ryan never wanted the secret out—he felt like he’d consented.

Instead of telling her what was going through my head, I kept silent. God, how could I have fucked this up? How could I have fucked up the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

It takes a minute or two before I’m physically able to scramble out of bed and into my jeans. I race out of the apartment, and practically hurl myself down the stairs and out the main entrance.

But I’m too late.

I chase after Amber, but she either doesn’t see me or can’t get away from me fast enough. She speeds off, leaving me standing there barefoot on the sidewalk, the air squeezed out of my lungs.

With the cold rain pelting my half-naked body, I bend over, hands braced against my knees. My ribs cry out in pain as I fight to catch my breath.

I can’t believe how much I screwed things up, and how I did it right after I told her I love her. Okay, I might not have said those exact words. But it was implied when I told her Paul didn’t make love to her. I’ve never referred to it that way with another girl, but I’ve never made love before now. With other girls, I’ve only had sex.

I return to the apartment, uncertain what to do next. Throw something. Get drunk. Track down Carlos and let him finish me off. My heart feels as though I’m dragging it on the ground behind me. With each step, it becomes more damaged, to the point it’s barely functioning.

First, I try phoning Amber, but all I get is her voicemail. All I can do is leave a message, telling her she’s wrong. I didn’t think badly of what she did to stay alive. And no matter what she thinks, Paul did rape her.

I spend the next hour pacing, waiting for her to return my call and text. When it becomes obvious that’s not going to happen, I snatch an empty beer bottle from the coffee table and throw it against the wall. It shatters, leaving a shallow dent. Bits of glass hail onto the beige carpet.

Next, I grab five beers from the fridge and place them on the table in a single line. I plunk myself on the couch and drink from the first bottle. The sound of laughter from the neighbor’s TV drifts through the wall, and for a second, I swear the laughter is directed at me. A reminder of how my life is nothing but a sick joke. The punch line’s on me. Just when I thought I’d finally redeemed myself to some higher power, for everything I’ve done, my life becomes even more fucked up.

I finish the second bottle and then the third. I know I’m being reckless but I don’t care. Maybe Frank has the right idea about getting drunk all the time. It really does dull the pain.

Only, it doesn’t eradicate it.

* * *

“
Don’t touch him!
”
Ryan yells
,
glaring up at Frank.
He might be trying to act brave
,
but my fifteen-year-old brother is scared shitless.

Frank reeks of beer but he’s still stable on his feet.
He doesn’t have enough alcohol in his system to help soften the blows.

Ryan realizes this.
“
Get out of here
,
Marcus
,”
he pleads
,
eyes not leaving Frank for even a second.

I
take a step toward the door.
I’m not sure where I’m going
,
but I have to escape before it’s too late.

“
Where ya think you’re goin’?
”
Frank grabs my arm and flings me to the side.
I
stumble and hit my head hard against the drawers.
The world spins around me in a blur of blues
,
browns and white.

I
collapse to the floor.

Frank grips my arm and yanks me to my feet.
He pushes me to the bed
,
forcing me on to my back
,
legs dangling over the side.
Before I realize what he’s doing
,
he unsnaps my jeans and pulls down the zipper.
His cold callous fingers grope inside my boxers and grab hold of my dick.
Shame floods my body but I’m too dizzy to do anything about it.

“
You stuck that in a girl yet?
”
His cruel grin makes my stomach turn.

I
want to kick him and try to get free
,
but I’m afraid
,
afraid he’ll do something worse if I fight back.

“
Get off him
,”
Ryan screams
,
pounding his fists against Frank’s arm.
But he’s not strong enough to do any damage.
Not like the damage Frank has inflicted on us for years.
Though this is the first time he’s touched me there.

Frank sneers at him.
“
You want me to do you instead?
”

I
expect Ryan to scream
, “
Fuck
,
no!
”
but he doesn’t.
His face pales and he can’t even look at me when he nods.
“
As long as you don’t touch my brother.
”
His voice is so small
,
I’m not even sure I heard him right.
I
pray with everything I have in me and then some that I heard him wrong.

Frank removes his hand from my boxers
,
yanks me up by the arm and shoves me to the floor.
I
lie there
,
too stunned to move
,
and helplessly watch as Frank turns to Ryan.
He orders my brother to undo his jeans and pull them and his underwear down.
He then gestures for Ryan to bend over the bed.

* * *

My stomach churns in anger; my eyes snap open. I roll off the couch and stagger to the bathroom. I barely make it in time before I heave into the toilet.

Even in my current drunken state, I feel the pain in my ribs from the strain. And for once, I welcome it.

Puking the contents of my stomach does nothing to erase the image in my brain of Frank raping Ryan. And not just that one time. Even though I never saw Frank touch Ryan that way again, I wondered if it was still happening, to keep me safe, but I was always too afraid to ask Ryan. Too afraid to find out the truth.

I hurl in the toilet again. Once my stomach has had enough and there’s nothing left to heave, at least for now, I collapse onto the cool tile and lie here, unmoving.

I’ve never told anyone my secret. Not even Chase. After what happened, after I realized what Frank was probably still doing to Ryan, I hooked up with any female willing to spread her legs for me. Anything to prove I wasn’t Ryan.

And I’m still not. Ryan risked his life for me. The night Frank shot him, Frank had come home drunk like usual, carrying a gun. He took me by surprise and threatened to kill me if I didn’t let him screw me. I’ve never been more terrified. Ryan came in at that point, after Chase told him where to find me. Ryan shot Frank in the leg. Frank shot Ryan in the chest. And just like that one night many years ago, Ryan made me promise never to tell anyone what happened. To not let him die in shame.

I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand and sit up. I can’t even feel angry for puking so much. I deserve it. I didn’t stop Ryan from being hurt. I didn’t stand up for him and tell the authorities what Frank had done to me. Like Ryan, I was too ashamed to admit it. If only I had been as strong as he was and Amber is. I hurt Amber when I hadn’t meant to. I don’t deserve her love. The only thing I deserve is exactly what I’ll get—a hangover to rival all others.

* * *

Chase comes home the following afternoon. I haven’t moved from the couch all day, other than to puke in the toilet a few more times. “Dude, you look like shit.”

Feel that way, too. “I think I have the flu,” I mumble. From the way he takes in the sea of beer bottles on the table, it’s obvious he’s not buying that.

He frowns. “You wanna talk about it?”

I shake my head, the movement aggravating an already bad headache.

I stay on the couch for the rest of the day, not talking. Chase pulls up the armchair and we watch mindless TV. He doesn’t push anything, but I can feel him watching me more than he watches the TV. He doesn’t even comment on the new dent in the wall. The pieces of glass have since been removed, when I was sober enough to pick them up this morning.

He eventually gets up and sighs loudly. “Call her.” He doesn’t say anything else before disappearing into his room, and I’m glad I’m not privy to his thoughts. I’m sure he’s calling me an idiot, even though he has no idea what I’ve done.

* * *

The next day, I return to my classes. My hangover is gone, though I still feel like shit. The memory of what happened with Amber and the memory I’ve tried to repress for so long are both warring inside me, and I’m not sure how to escape.

I also wish I knew how to escape Tammara. “Hi, Marcus,” she purrs as I get ready to leave campus, my hand moving to the car door handle.

I freeze for a second before turning on her, voice tight. “What do you want?”

“You.” She smiles, a seductive tigress going in for the kill. “After the other night, I’m surprised you haven’t called.” She takes a step closer. I take one back, purposefully keeping the distance between us. After what happened, after what she did to me, it’s taking everything I have not to kill her.

“I don’t make it a habit of calling girls who drug me.” My voice is smooth like the sharp edge of a knife.

She doesn’t so much as flinch, but the icy intensity in her eyes tells me everything I need to know. I turn away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marcus. Why would I drug you? That’s ridiculous.” The sincerity in her words surprises me. She’s a better actress than I realized.

“So you’re telling me you have no idea why I don’t remember that night, other than you coming over ’cause your sister’s fiancé tried to hurt you? And you’re telling me you have no idea how Amber ended up with those photos of you and me in bed?”

“I didn’t drug you.” Her exasperation is as fake as her fingernails. “We were drinking and you must have drank too much. That’s why you don’t remember. But everything in those photos...that really did happen.”

“Neither Amber nor I believe any of that. So whatever you thought was going to happen between you and me, you can forget it, Tammara. I already told you it’s over between us. And I meant it. What I want to know is if you”—I swallow hard, struggling to get the words out—“if you touched...violated me.”

Tammara frantically shakes her head. “No. It was nothing like that. I would never—”

“What about what you told me about your sister’s fiancé? Was that a lie too?”

She turns her gaze to the ground and nods.

“I don’t get it. I’ve told you before there’s nothing between us, other than the friends with benefit thing we agreed on. Why are you so desperate to be with me?”

“Because you’re different, Marcus. You’re the first guy who’s pursued me that I was sure wasn’t interested in my family or my money. Plus I’m supposed to settle down with a respectable guy, so it’ll look good for when my father runs for the senate. God, do you know how boring that is?”

I frown. “So you’re pulling some sort of high school rebellious crap? What, I’m the bad boy your parents will disapprove of?” Not wanting to hear any more, I open the car door. “Keep away from me, Tammara, or else I will press charges.” I climb behind the wheel and slam the door.

Tammara stands motionless for a moment, looking lost.

No longer caring whether she is still here or not, I check my phone. Amber still hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts. If she hasn’t by now, she never will. It really is over this time.

She was one of the few good things in my life, and I’ve lost her.

I hurl the phone against the passenger door and watch it shatter.

Chapter Forty-Three

Amber

Brittany’s in our room when I return from classes. Her head is slumped forward, her back pressed against the wall in the small space between the closet and her desk, and her knees are pulled tight to her chest. Her shoulders jerk rhythmically while small sobbing sounds fill the cramped space.

I’ve never seen Brittany like this before.

I’m not even sure she’s aware I’m here. Usually the first thing she does when I enter the room is glare at me, but this time she doesn’t even look up.

“Are you okay?” I crouch in front of her.

Scattered around her feet are what looks like anime drawings. When she doesn’t reply, I pick one up and examine it. It’s a black-and-white sketch of a girl with long black hair and big eyes. She has no mouth but still manages to look sad. In one hand is a knife dripping with what I guess is blood, as it’s been colored in with a red pencil. In the other hand is a red heart. Above where her heart would be located, a piece of her long-sleeved T-shirt is missing and the spot around it is also colored in red pencil. Next to the young girl, who could almost be Brittany, are the words
Somebody take my heart.
Cuz I don’t want it
, which are written in black Goth-like letters.

I pick up the next picture and gasp. This one contains what looks like cute little-kid versions of Marcus and me. He’s sitting on the ground, wearing jeans and his black leather jacket. I’m kneeling slightly behind him, hugging him with my arms around his neck. Above the kids are the words
I
love you
.

In front of me are the words I’ve known for a while, but have been too afraid to admit. I love Marcus. Only now it’s too late.

I haven’t listened to his messages. I’m not going to. I know what he’s going to say, and I’m too scared to hear the words. The words that confirm he and I are over.

Scrawled in the corner of each picture is what looks like a signature. It takes a few seconds to make out Brittany’s name. As in, she drew them. I look back and forth between the pictures. Is that what this is all about? She had a secret crush on Marcus, like every other girl on campus, and now she’s upset because she thinks he and I are an item?

I stare at the girl, unsure what to do. Do I tell her Marcus and I aren’t together so she thinks she has a chance with him after all? The idea of them together, kissing, causes my heart to ache. The idea of
any
girl kissing him causes my heart to ache.

But Brittany doesn’t come off as the type who would cry over a relationship that never existed. She might glare at me more, but never openly sob or cower in a corner over something like this.

I rest my hand on her knee. “Brittany, has someone hurt you?”

She lifts her head. Blood from a small cut below her left eye mixes with her tears.

I suck in a breath. “What happened?”

Brittany wipes the damp mascara trails with her hand, smearing them and the blood. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters.

“It might help.”

“What would a princess like you know ’bout anything?”

I snort. “What? You think I get several nightmares a night because I’m a princess? You think I wake up screaming ’cause I left my tiara at Prince Charming’s house?”

That gets a small smile out of her. Her gaze moves to my forehead. “How did you get that?” She touches her forehead in the same spot where I now have a scar.

I know what she’s really asking. “I didn’t get it ’cause someone hit me. I stumbled and lost my balance....” I avert my eyes, trying to figure out how much to tell her. I need to gain her trust if I want to help her. She might not want to admit it, but she does need my help.

Or maybe I need to help her as a way to help me.

“I get flashbacks,” I blurt.

Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

“Someone hurt me earlier this year. He almost killed me. That’s why I have the nightmares. When I’m not asleep, anything can set me off and make me remember things I’d rather not remember.” I swallow back the pain of telling her the truth, of opening myself up to the girl who dislikes me.

Brittany stares at me, likes she’s digging deeper, finding another way to make me feel even more fragile. Between what I’ve told her and the knowledge that Paul is out there, and after what happened last night with Marcus, she doesn’t have to delve too far.

I already feel exposed and raw.

“I was raped,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

My insides squeeze into a tight ball at her words. The words I wish I could take away and make less real. “Do you know who it was?”

She looks down and nods. “Jack. My boyfriend.”

“Have you told the police?”

Still looking down, she shakes her head.

“You really should. They can lock him away and—” I want to say,
you can feel safe again
, but I’m still waiting for that to happen. Even if Brittany’s rapist is locked away, will she ever feel safe?

“I can’t do that. I don’t want to be poked at like I’m some crappy science experiment.”

“I know. But I’ll stay with you if you want.”

She looks at me, and I don’t see the girl who has disliked me all semester. I see the girl who wants to trust me, the girl who needs a friend, the girl who wants someone to be there for her, to help her get through this nightmare.

“Why the hell would you do that for me? I’ve been a bitch to you all semester.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I didn’t deserve it. I kept waking you up with my nightmares. I’d probably be bitchy too if our places were reversed.”

Her gaze drops to the drawings. I pick up the one of the two kids who look like me and Marcus. “These are great. How come we’ve been roommates for so long and I never knew you could draw like this?” I figured she liked drawing. I’ve seen her supplies. But until now, I’d never seen her artwork. I never knew if she was any good, and I hadn’t bothered to ask.

She fingers the picture of the girl with the bloodied knife. “My father thought my drawings were a waste of time. He used to get angry when he saw me draw, so I got good at hiding them.” She runs her finger over the knife. “You promise me you’ll stay with me...at the hospital?”

“Yes. Unless you want me to leave. I know what it’s like to be checked for signs of rape. And I know what it’s like to have no one there for you. So yes, if you want me there, I’ll stay.”

Because Brittany doesn’t want anyone to notice her, I lend her Trent’s hoodie, which swallows her up. She cleans the mascara and blood off her face with a tissue and slips on a pair of sunglasses. She presses a tissue against the cut, though it doesn’t seem to be enough to stop the bleeding.

I drive her to the hospital, but I don’t press her to tell me what happened. I let her know I’m here if she wants to talk. We mostly just listen to the rock station on the radio. Every so often, I look at her to check she’s all right.

At the hospital, I reach for her trembling hand as she leans in to talk to the triage nurse. She almost squeezes the life out of my fingers when she tells the nurse that she was raped.

Much to Brittany’s obvious relief, the nurse doesn’t make us sit in the waiting room. We’re sent to an exam room where we wait, still not saying much. Brittany retreats into her own world, and I pretend to be fascinated with the various pieces of medical equipment in the room, while I sit next to her on the exam table. Every now and then, the distant wail of sirens approaches the hospital.

“Did they catch the guy?” she says at one point, while I’m trying not to think about Marcus, while I’m trying not to think about when the doctor examined me after my kidnapping, while I’m trying not to think about the upcoming court case. While I’m trying not to think. Period.

“He’s in a psych ward.”

A doctor and nurse enter the room, keeping me from elaborating, which is fine by me. Even though they’re both women, Brittany still clutches my hand, the pressure on my fingers even tighter than in triage.

The doctor cleans the cut, then places steri-strips below Brittany’s eye. Once she’s finished she asks Brittany to lie down, then examines her while I focus on my roommate’s face and stroke her silky hair. Brittany stares at the ceiling. A tear runs down her temple and she sniffs.

Once the doctor’s finished, she and the nurse leave, and a female cop enters and asks questions. Brittany answers the best she can. She’s still scared, but the cop tries to make the process easier for her.

“If he’s caught, he’ll end up in a psych ward?” she asks, confused over my earlier comment.

The cop shakes her head. “No, he’ll go to jail.”

Her confusion deepening, Brittany looks at me.

“My—The man who hurt me has mental issues,” I explain. “He’s in the prison’s psych ward.” I leave it at that.

After the cop leaves, a rape counselor comes in. She and Brittany talk for a few minutes and the woman tells her about the resources available to rape survivors.

“It wasn’t your fault, no matter what anyone tells you,” she says. “You didn’t ask for this to happen. The only person responsible for what happened is the man who hurt you.”

As the woman answers Brittany’s questions, I dwell on how Paul may have been responsible for his actions, but the system failed me and it failed Trent and Michael. It didn’t do enough to protect us.

Can it protect me from Paul, even though he’s supposed to be locked away? Or will it fail me once again?